


Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Time Travel Without 'Em

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Meaning people who canonically died although not in canonical ways, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16332788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Fingolfin gets thrown back into the past. So does Feanor.Their plans to fix things might go a little easier if they didn't both think they were there alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.
> 
> If this looks familiar, you probably saw it posted on Tumblr under my username Sweatteaanddragons.

This is not the throne room in Tirion.

Or, rather, it is, but it’s the throne room as he remembers it, not the throne room he was recently shown after his release from the halls of Mandos. Fingolfin can’t help but relax a bit. It’s a dream or a vision of some sort, surely, but it’s a comforting one.

He smiles at the faces he sees around him. Some of them are still in Mandos. Some he has hesitated to speak to. But now here they all are, disturbed by whatever politics are current today, but blissfully safe.

And there is his father, on the throne.

Fingolfin’s breath catches.

The familiar words, the words that have haunted his dreams, roll down. The issue at hand: Feanor’s desire to leave Valinor and his words against the Valar.

Fingolfin knows his part. He knows what he is supposed to say. He is supposed to call for the restraining of Feanor and to disparage Feanor’s loyalty to their father. He is supposed to drive in the final wedge. He has had this dream before.

He waits a moment for the words to come forth against his will, but nothing happens. His father’s eyes merely remain fixed on him.

Fingolfin has many words he would say to his brother - yes, _brother_ \- and more than a few might be unkind, but he has to admit that his long ago remark had been unjust. Feanor’s loyalty to the Valar is questionable at best, but having seen him grieve their father, there can be no doubt about Feanor’s honor and loyalty to him.

He had wondered, on the Ice, what might have happened if he hadn’t said those words. If he had offered any other, lesser, insult. If he had kept his own counsel. If, if, if.

So he says instead, “I have heard much rumor about my brother’s views on these matters, but I confess that we have not spoken plainly of the matter face to face. I would be sure I know his views fully before I respond to them.”

And then Feanor strides in, dressed for war, or at least the closest approximation Aman raised elves could imagine.

 

If this hall is part of Mandos, it is no part Feanor has yet seen. Has he wandered into some memory of his father’s?

Then he looks down at what he is wearing and realization hits.

If it is a memory of his father’s, it is not a good one.

He strides in. If this is a memory of his father’s, then he will seek to improve it. If it is a test of Namo’s, he will pass it.

He does not care for the hoops Namo tries to make him jump through, but his pride has long ago bent far enough to allow him to jump through them anyway. 

When Namo believes his behavior might prove to be a good example, he is allowed to see his sons.

He sees Fingolfin standing before the court, and he steels himself for the insult he knows is about to fall.

If he had not responded as he had, he would not have been exiled. If he had not had been exiled, his father would almost certainly have not been near the Silmarils when Morgoth elected to steal them. If, if, if.

When he was a boy, he’d played the "if" game a lot, mostly as regarded his mother. He’d set it away as a waste of time as an adult, but in the Halls of Mandos, there is little else to do.

He moves his hand deliberately away from his sword.

And then Fingolfin - doesn’t. Doesn’t say anything inflammatory at all.

Is this some point Namo is making? Is this how his father wishes it had gone? Or has his approach this time been somehow different - less provocative to cause Fingolfin to choose gentler words, or more obvious, to make him be more careful?

“I would be happy to explain my arguments more thoroughly so that - “ If this is his father’s memory, this will make him happy. If this is Namo, it will please him as well. And … the idea is no longer as abhorrent as it once was. “So that my brother and all those not yet fully acquainted with my words might be persuaded.”

If this is Namo’s test, then he supposes what comes out of his mouth next ought to be conciliatory to the Valar.

Feanor has not yet been forced to bend that far.

 _For the sake of authenticity,_ he tells Namo in case he’s listening, and then he gives a speech of hope and fire filled with all the dreams he never lived to see shine.

 

The fire of his brother’s words is nearly irresistible, but Fingolfin does his best to resist anyway. He can only afford to lend half his attention to Feanor’s words. The rest he must devote to figuring out how he will respond.

If this is a dream or a vision, it might not matter, but -

He can feel his bond to his wife, as of yet unstrained. He can feel the power of Feanor’s words as an almost physical force. He can see a crack in the floor that he does not think he ever noticed before.

It occurs to him that this might not be a dream, and if there is any chance it is not, then it matters.

If he encourages their people to leave for Beleriand, he knows all too well what disaster could so easily strike them again. His daughter-in-law dead on the ice. Argon dead almost as soon as they arrive. Aredhel missing and then murdered. Fingon and Turgon falling in battle.

Feanor dead before Fingolfin even arrives.

And those are only the beginning of the tragedies. They might not occur this time around if he does things differently, but he cannot take the risk.

Unfortunately for this plan, he has already thought of Aredhel. Aredhel, who had pressed her lips together and called her marriage “complicated,” and refused to speak of it more. Aredhel, who had broken down crying even in the Halls when she told Fingolfin of the grandson he had never known and who they could not find in the milling throng of Mandos.

Aredhel, who had refused to leave the Halls until she found Maeglin.

His daughter died for her son and refused to give up on him despite all that came after. He does not think she would appreciate him deciding to stop his chance for existence. 

Turgon might choose otherwise but Idril - his granddaughter is safely born and halfway grown, but the man she will love is half a world away. If he successfully keeps her here, she will never meet him. Earendil, a smiling elf with a stubborn jaw, will never be born.

There will be no Elrond, talking wistfully of his brother and the fall of Numenor. There will be no Numenor at all. There will be no Celebrian, no Elladan, no Elrohir, no Arwen, and no Aragorn for her to choose mortality for.

Possibly no Gil-Galad, although he’s honestly not sure.

He does not know most of those people well and some not at all, but he cannot imagine arguing to erase any of them for what might be.

Feanor’s speech echoes and ends. All eyes turn to Fingolfin.

“I would think more kindly of the Valar,” he begins, “but at the heart of the matter, I agree. Much peace and safety has been bought by coming here, but if some would return to our ancient lands, then why should they be kept back?”

There is more, but that’s the bit that creates a memory he will always treasure whether this is dream or vision or truth: Feanor’s face for a moment gaping in open shock.

 

This is not what Feanor expected. 

There is no final conclusion that day, of course, but he hardly expected one. This is still a step forward he never dreamed of.

He could follow Fingolfin and demand answers, but he does not dare follow him now. Not with a sword still on his waist.

Instead, he goes home.

Nerdanel has already left him, but his sons are still there, still whole, still safe.

Maedhros looks at him anxiously, and it takes all Feanor has not to pull him into his arms. “How did it go?”

“No ruffled feathers for you to smoothe this time,” Feanor assures him, allowing himself a comforting hand on Maedhros’s shoulder. “Your uncle agreed with me.”

He is not sure whether his children are more shocked by their uncle’s agreement or by the fact Feanor has referred to him as such. He laughs, and he knows the sound is to relieved, too joyful, but he cannot help it. 

“Come,” he says, “let us eat, and I will tell you all about it, and then if you still do not believe me, Maitimo, you can go get your uncle’s perspective from Findekano.”

In another time, today had been the beginning of a break in their friendship, although not, thankfully as it turned out, a permanent one. As difficult as it is to let any of them out of his sight at the moment, he owes them this.

 

Fingolfin has anticipated there being problems. He has not anticipated one of those problems being names until he absently mentions to his wife needing to talk to Fingon only for her brow to wrinkle as she says, “Who?”

They don’t know Sindarin yet, he has to remind himself, and he does his best not to slip again.

 

This - whatever it is - has gone on long enough for Feanor to dismiss the idea that it could be a memory of his father’s and to doubt that it is a test of Namo’s.

Which means it might be real, and if it’s real, he has to at least try to fix things.

So he treats it like a project and sits down to determine his goals and the parameters for success.

One. Keeping his family well and alive.

Two. Keeping his Silmarils out of Morgoth’s hands.

Three. If possible, remaining alive himself.

The key problems with this are threefold. First, he no longer has any idea what Morgoth might do. The debate in Tirion is still fierce, but it has not erupted into violence. History has changed, and he has no idea how that might affect Morgoth’s plans. Second, without his trial, Morgoth has not yet been denounced to the world at large. Feanor is the only one who knows how much darkness the Vala tries to hide. Third, he is uncertain what arrangements he could possibly make that would keep the Silmarils safe from both Morgoth and Ungoliant, short of destroying them or giving them to another Vala.

If he destroys them, he destroys himself with them, and he would prefer not to face Namo again any time soon unless it is absolutely necessary. Giving them to the Valar would at least delay this problem until the Trees are destroyed - if Morgoth still goes through with that plan - but once they are, he has no confidence in them putting his life over the immediate need for light. Giving up would also mean giving up the life giving light of the Trees, something that will make their efforts in Beleriand that much harder.

It’s a tricky problem, and one he has to solve alone. There is no one else to trust with it.

Not until Fingolfin is speaking to him and mentions Maedhros. 

Not Maitimo. Not Nelyafinwe.

Maedhros.

They are in private, sitting together in Fingolfin’s study to discuss the question consuming all of TIrion, so Feanor interrupts him with, “Fingolfin.”

Fingoflin freezes.

Feanor can’t stop a triumphant smile. “I thought so. I imagine it’s been a while since anyone’s called you by that name.” He stops to consider. “Or, alternately, it will yet be a while until anyone else does. Meddling with time makes for difficult chronology - “

Fingolfin punches him. 

The ensuing fight involves more shouting than violence, but Fingolfin has more than one punch built up from millennia of anger. Feanor refuses to push back, however, not because he doesn’t want to hit his half-brother, but because in the back of his mind he can’t help thinking that someone could walk through that door any moment, and if anyone’s getting exiled to Formenos, it’s not going to be him. Fingolfin, for his part, can only hit a man who won’t hit back for so long.

“You left us!” he shouts. “I swore to follow you, and you left us - “

“You were calling yourself Finwenolofinwe,” Feanor spits back, “forgive me for thinking a man angling to be king was not all that eager to follow - “

“So you left us to the Ice to die?”

“So I meant for you to go HOME!” Feanor roars.

They glare at each for a few moments, panting, before Fingolfin collapses into a chair and says rather blankly, “Oh.”

Feanor sits down more gingerly and prods at the beginnings of a black eye which will be difficult to explain.

“Truce?” his brother finally offers.

“A truce,” Feanor agrees. “We have a greater enemy to worry about.” He wipes some blood from his lip. “A shame we can’t frame him for this.”

Fingolfin winces. “I was expecting you to hit back.”

A knock on the door interrupts any reply Feanor could have made. “Father?” Fingon calls tentatively. “Uncle Feanoro? Are you alright? We heard … something falling.”

A chair had indeed been knocked to the floor when Feanor had stumbled back from Fingolfin’s second blow. Feanor very much doubts that was all Fingon and anyone else present in the house at the moment had heard.

Fingolfin’s face is half buried in his hands. “All’s well,” he calls back, voice slightly muffled. “I’ll explain later.”

“Of course, Father,” Fingon says somewhat doubtfully, and his footsteps slowly recede.

“Depending on what exactly he overheard, I wish you luck with that,” Feanor says dryly.

Fingolfin groans.


	2. Chapter 2

Fingolfin’s explanation doesn’t end up explaining much at all, so Fingon ends up drawing his own conclusions. Given the circumstances, those conclusions cause enough concern that he goes to Maedhros, who goes to his brothers, and soon the rumor mill in the city is fairly certain that Fingolfin and Feanor, tentative allies, are now at each other’s throats again.

“Relax,” Feanor tells him. They’re meeting in Feanor’s office this time, and Fingolfin is pretty sure some of his nephews are lurking protectively outside the door. “The Valar aren’t going to exile you over a few punches.”

“And if they do?” Fingolfin says wearily from his seat.

Feanor shrugs, still pacing restlessly. “Then events are one step closer to being back on track, and we’ll have a better idea what will happen next.”

Fingolfin stares at him for a long moment. “I hate you,” he said flatly.

“I know,” Feanor says with far too much cheer. “Which reminds me.” He goes to the elaborate safe in the wall and after a moment of visible hesitance wrenches the already slightly ajar door open. The light of the Silmarils gleams forth.

Feanor dumps them in a bag that somehow manages to hide that light and then turns and holds them out expectantly towards Fingolfin.

Fingolfin eyes them warily. “What exactly are you expecting me to do with those?”

“Take them,” Feanor says impatiently. “I’ve thought it over, and it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Fingolfin opens his mouth, closes it, blinks, and tries again. “What?’

“Morgoth will never imagine that I’d give them to you,” Feanor says, growing ever more impatient as Fingolfin fails to keep up with his madcap plan. “When news of our views aligning got out, he might have, but the bruises have helped with that greatly, thank you. The only elf I’d be less likely to give them to is Indis, but she’s in far too close proximity to Father, and she wouldn’t understand the need to keep quiet about it.”

“Whereas I am expendable,” Fingolgin says dryly.

“Whereas you once managed to wound Morgoth seven times. If he does see through the ruse, I am confident in your ability to stab him somewhere that will give you enough time to get away.” He pauses. “Preferably with the gems.”

Fingolfin is working up a retort to that when it fully hits him what’s happening.

Feanor is handing over the Silmarils. Willingly. To him. The gems he denied the Valar. The gems that might contain a bit of his very soul.

And he has just quietly given Fingolfin to run away without them if he has to.

“Right,” he says hoarsely and finally accepts them. “I’ll do all in my power to protect them.”

“You had better,” Feanor grumbles and stares at the bag longingly for a few moments before tearing his eyes away.

 

The movement to go across the sea grows and grows, but violence hasn’t broken out. Feanor thinks they still have plenty of time.

He thinks this until the day when they are finally permitted to present their case to the Valar. It is a small hearing, quiet and private, with only Feanor and Fingolfin there to present their thoughts.

Feanor is just about to begin when the distant sound of barking becomes too close to ignore, and Huan crashes through the door. A bloodied Celebrimbor is on his back, clinging to his neck, sobbing too hard to speak.

Feanor stands frozen.

“Atar,” Celebrimbor manages to choke out, “Atar, he came, he wanted - “

Feanor is there in an instant, wrapping the boy up in his arms. Huan growls protectively when Fingolfin tries to follow. 

He doesn’t have to ask what his grandson is talking about.

His decoy has worked too well. 

“Take him to his mother,” he orders Huan, voice sounding very distant. His hand reaches for a sword that he remembers too late he has chosen not to wear.

It doesn’t matter.

He runs.

 

Fingolfin doesn’t stay to see how the Valar react. He takes off after his brother. Neither of them are armed. If Morgoth is still there -

Well, it isn’t like they haven’t faced impossible odds before.

He comes to a stop right behind his brother. 

The beautiful house just outside of Tirion is in ruins. One faint cry rises from them, and Feanor bursts into motion once more.

It’s Celegorm, only half buried in the rubble. “Tyelpe,” he whispers. “Did Tyelpe get out?”

“He’s well,” Feanor assures him, perhaps overstating things a bit. “Just as you will be.” He immediately turns his attention to the stone, figuring out the best way to move it.

“Melkor wanted the Silmarils,” Celegorm rasps. “We refused him.”

Fingolfin closes his eyes. It is easier than looking at the expression on his brother’s face.

But the scene emerges all too easily in his mind. The refusal. The fight. Celegorm pushing Celebrimbor out the door, ordering Huan to get him to safety, and consequently being spared the full collapse himself.

Feanor begins singing the stones into the air. Fingolfin grabs Celegorm and pulls him loose, wincing at his nephew’s groans. 

“Your brothers?” he asks in dread so that Feanor won’t have to.

“He took Maitimo,” Celegorm manages. “Macalaure. And Curufinwe. Three sons for three Silmarils … “

“And the others?” Fingolfin asks.

Celegorm closes his eyes.

Behind the stones Feanor has lifted, Fingolfin can see one crushed hand.

“No,” Feanor says, fire and despair already consuming him. “No.”

It is at that moment that the light of the Trees goes out.


	3. Chapter 3

Fingolfin had thought he had seen Feanor desperate last time. It is nothing compared to Feanor now.

He had thought to find his brother stirring up the people. Instead, he finds him outside Celegorm’s sick room, drawing up plans to depart immediately.

“We’re not ready yet,” he protests immediately. “It takes time to prepare an army, Celegorm’s not even fully healed yet - “

Feanor slams him against the wall. “Time. What time do you imagine we have?” he snarls. “With two hands you promised but with one hand you gave. Do you think I never saw that part of the tapestry in all my long years in Mandos?”

Suddenly Feanor’s grip is the only thing keeping him upright. “Ungoliant,” he breathes.

“We have but days until she will confront him on the Ice,” Feanor says, backing off now that his urgency has been communicated. “I do not trust him to be as careful of my sons as he was of my gems.” The dim torches they are now forced to rely on are nothing next to the fire in his eyes. “I have lost three already, I will not lose more. Not again.”

Fingolfin swallows and pushes himself off the wall. Then he takes his life in his hands by saying, “No matter what you do, you won’t be fast enough.”

Feanor freezes in place, gaze murderous, but he doesn’t deny it.

Fingolfin forges on. “We have to trust that they’re still alive and move onward. It’s the only way.”

Feanor’s shoulders slump in defeat for the first time Fingolfin can remember. It doesn’t bring the satisfaction he’d once thought it would.

“Father’s on our side now,” he says, hoping to stir the fire back up. “We’ll have a bigger army than last time. We will save them. It will just take time.”

“Time for him to destroy them,” Feanor spits, but he doesn’t argue the point further. “I need the Silmarils back from wherever you’ve stashed them.”

“You don’t actually think - “

“He’ll honor an agreement, no, of course not,” Feanor says impatiently. “I need to forge a weapon that can harm him, and that light is the best clue we have. Better to get as much of the work done here as I can while I still have all my tools.”

“I can help,” Celegorm offers.

Fingolfin turns to see his nephew braced against the door to his room, deathly pale and half supported by Huan but standing. 

Celegorm ducks his head. “I know I’m no Curufinwe, but I do still remember what you taught me, Ada.”

There’s something of a commotion building in the front of the healing wing. Fingolin listens with half an ear, but most of his focus is on Feanor’s suddenly softened face. “Your help would be much appreciated. Perhaps Celebrimbor’s too; it’ll do the boy good to have a project.”

And perhaps the mind that had helped devise the rings will have useful insights, young as he yet is, Fingolfin mentally fills in, although he suspects Feanor’s motivations are a combination of both.

“And then we will hunt Morgoth with it,” Celegorm growls with dark satisfaction.

The commotion is growing closer, but Fingolfin thinks he might be the only one who’s noticed. Feanor’s eyes have gone hot again. 

“We will be doing nothing of the sort,” he snaps. “You will be staying here with your mother.”

Celegorm looks as if he’s been slapped. Any thought of interfering vanishes immediately, however.

Mainly because:

“He will not,” Nerdanel says. A few healers trail uncertainly behind her, commotion finally explained. “If you think I am staying safely anywhere while three of my sons are held captive, then you really do know nothing of me, Feanoro.”

Feanor stares at her like she’s a vision. He takes a half step forward, reaching hesitantly towards her before falling back. “Nerdanel.”

Nerdanel, Fingolfin notices, has taken that same half-step forward.

“I am - very glad - you’ve decided to come,” he says haltingly. 

A bit of the fight goes out of her at the lack of opposition. “I didn’t come for you,” she reminds him, but her hand still twitches toward him at the pain in his eyes.

“I know,” he says quietly. “We will get them back, Nerdanel. If it costs me every work I have made and every drop of blood in my veins, we will get them back.”

Fingolfin is the one who twitches forward this time, in case that promise shows signs of becoming an Oath, but Feanor restrains himself. 

Nerdanel nods firmly, but her eyes are over full. “We will,” she agrees. Then she pushes forward and embraces Celegorm. “You need more rest,” she tells him with her head still buried in his shoulder. “Come along.” 

Celegorm hesitates just for a moment after his mother has disappeared into his room. “I know I failed you once, Ada, but I won’t do so again, I sw- “

“No,” Feanor cuts him off. “You have not failed me. You have never failed me. You could never fail me.” He shoots a look of challenge towards Fingolfin, but Fingolfin has no intention of contesting it. “I would only have kept you safe for a while longer if I could.”

Celegorm looks at his father with wide eyes, and Fingolfin feels very much the intruder.

He is also hit with a desperate desire to see his own children.

He excuses himself quietly and goes to do so while there is still time.

 

The mobilization of the Noldor is even more massive than last time which is perhaps to be expected with Finwe himself leading the charge.

The Valar, however, have still expressed their disapproval.

Feanor paces in the nearly empty command tent. His fear that the Valar’s displeasure, sure to only increase, will hurt Caranthir and the Ambarussa’s chances of being re-embodied hangs unspoken on the air. He cannot relent, though, not with three of his other sons’ lives in the balance, so he is left with a problem he cannot solve, something Feanor has never dealt well with.

Fingolfin stares down at the map in futile hope that it will present a solution that evaded him last time. 

“Ada might talk Olwe into lending us the ships,” he says. It’s well worn ground between them by now. Finwe is in the middle of those talks. If he succeeds, well and good. If he doesn’t - 

He doesn’t have a good answer to that.

“There’s the Grinding Ice,” he says. “It’s passable, we have proof of that this time. I know the dangers. We can go in better prepared.”

“It’s too slow,” Feanor says quietly.

For the Silmarils, for vengeance, Fingolin would have debated that point.

For Feanor’s children, he can’t.

“We can’t repeat Alqualonde.”

“I never asked you to do it the first time,” Feanor says tonelessly.

It’s not the first time that it’s occurred to Fingolfin that Feanor will repeat every tragedy from the last time with his eyes wide open if he thinks for a moment it will save his sons. 

“Mandos will lay a Doom on us,” he says.

“Not on them,” Feanor points out. “Not if there’s any justice. And he’ll probably lay one on us anyway for leaving.”

“At which point Finarfin and his people will leave,” Fingolfin sighs. “We have to remember to plan for that.”

“No.”

They both to turn to look and see Finarfin - or, more properly at the moment, Arafinwe - standing at the entrance. It takes Fingolfin a moment to recognize his expression.

Arafinwe never did fury as loudly as the rest of the family, but it was never any less intense for it.

He strides into the tent still radiating it. “I am not turning tail and running back to Tirion.”

“Of course not,” Fingolfin soothes. “I didn’t mean it like - “

“No!” Arafinwe says, and there is nothing quiet about his fury now. “I will not leave my nephews to torment, I will not leave my family to be whittled away to almost nothing, I will not leave my son to be tortured in the dark, I will not let my only news of what has happened be a list of names begged from Nienna, I will not - If I have to swim to Beleriand, I will not - “ Arafinwe cuts off, chest heaving.

Not Arafinwe, he realizes.

Feanor’s eyes shine with the same realization. “Finarfin.”

“Yes,” his brother says bitterly. “Me. You’re not the only sons of Finwe caught up in things, it seems, and it’s going to stay that way this time.”

“You really had to beg news from Nienna?” Feanor asks, curiosity apparently overruling any other impulse.

“Not even the echo of your lamentations, Mandos said,” Finarfin says, bitterness passing into weariness. “And all Nienna would give us was names. Endless names. It wasn’t until Finrod was allowed to return that we knew more, and that was our last word until Earendil.” He swallows. “I can’t do it again. I can’t.”

Fingolfin is still reeling. “If you came back, why haven’t you been … “ He’s not sure what, exactly, Finarfin should have been doing, but he should have been doing something.

“I have been doing something,” Finarfin says. “It took me a while to realize I wasn’t the only one who had come back, and I figured we’d be needing to cross the ocean sooner or later.”

Hope burns in Feanor’s eyes. “What did you do?”

Finarfin grins with just a touch of sharpness. “I’ve been buying boats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Fingolfin and Feanor remember they're not the only sons of Finwe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this took so long. I had intended for this to be the last section, but after such a long wait, I decided to cut it in half so I could go ahead and post what I had.
> 
> The Doom included here is adapted from Tolkien’s; some of it is a straight quote.

“Tears unnumbered you shall shed, and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. To evil end shall all things turn that you begin well; and by your foe’s treachery and might shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall you be forever. Slain you may be, and slain you shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos and there long abide.”

Most of the host is at least disturbed by the message, whether they will admit it or not.

Feanor is not. “Though you laid a heavier Doom than this,” he cries out, “still I would go on. I am neither so heartless nor so craven as to so quickly abandon my own blood. Yet I know not all here bear these ties. If some would turn back - “

A ringing cry of denial explodes from the Noldor.

The herald bows his head.

 

Between Finwe’s negotiations and Finarfin’s contributions, they have enough boats to get across in two crossings. Feanor is determined to be in the first for understandable reasons; Fingolfin refuses to wait for the second for what Feanor grudgingly admits are also understandable reasons. Finarfin puts his foot down on being the one left behind, though, which just leaves one potential leader to guide the second crossing: their father.

“It’s probably wise anyway,” Feanor says. “The fighting was fierce when we first landed. There’s no reason to think that’s changed.”

“The Noldor’s kings have always led the way into battle,” Fingolfin points out in counter, though in truth he’s as eager to prevent Finwe’s second fall as Feanor.

“Yes, and look how that turned out,” Feanor says dryly. “Finarfin’s the only one that didn’t fall in battle.”

“Probably because I never charged multiple Balrogs at once. Or challenged Morgoth to single combat.”

“To be fair, I didn’t realize I was doing that,” Feanor says. “That was the first time any of us had seen a Balrog; until I got close I had no idea what all that fire meant.”

Fingolfin has … never actually considered that before when wondering how, exactly, Feanor had managed to be ambushed by Balrogs. Thinking about it now, he has to admit that thinking the enemy has _set_ a fire was a more logical conclusion than thinking the enemy is _on_ fire. As for his own adventure … 

In fairness to his intelligence, it’s not like he’d had any illusions about how that was going to end.

He probably shouldn’t mention that though.

 

They do manage to convince Finwe, mainly by the novelty of all three of them being in agreement on something. Fingolfin’s not sure how long the shock of that’s going to last, but he’s going to use it while he can.

There are no storms harrying them this time like he’s heard there were the last. In fact, their journey is suspiciously quick. Fingolfin thinks he might see Ulmo’s influence there and offers thanks just in case.

If they’re not all going to die horribly this time, they’ll need all the help they can get.

 

The first battle reminds Finarfin of his own initial charge upon reaching Beleriand before it had slowed to a grim crawl. They rescue Cirdan’s flagging forces and push as far as Lake Mithrim. It’s the first time Finarfin’s gotten to see it unspoiled.

More importantly, he gets to see all of his family that went into the battle alive at the end of it, including Feanor. He’s counting that as just as much of a victory.

 

Morgoth sends an envoy with his offer: three sons for three Silmarils. Fingolfin expects to have to restrain Feanor, but his half-brother just accepts with uncharacteristically stony wrath.

There is still the matter of him accepting though.

 

“Are you mad?” Fingolfin demands in the command tent. “You know what happened last time!”

“I could hardly refuse,” Feanor snaps. “They are of use to him only as leverage. If I had refused to deal, he would have sent us their heads or worse. This buys us time for a rescue.”

“We can’t sustain another push,” Finarfin says. “Not until the boats return with Father and reinforcements.”

“I don’t intend to make a charge,” Feanor says, though his eyes dart down to the leather wrapped sword on the table.

“We are not sending my son in alone,” Fingolfin says flatly. “Last time was nightmare enough.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth when he realizes their folly. Of course Feanor does not intend to send anyone.

“I intend to follow his example and go myself.”

Of course he does. But he won’t be able to manage potentially carrying out all three, which meant … “You’ll need help,” Fingolfin admits. “And Fingon’s probably going to insist on being part of it.”

Feanor grimaces. “So will Celegorm, which at least has the advantage of also getting Huan.”

“I can come too,” Fingolfin offers, but Feanor shakes his head.

“I need you here,” he says. “To bring Morgoth the Silmarils.” His mouth twists into a fierce, ironic smile at the words even as he unwraps the leather and pulls forth the sword.

All three Silmarils burn in the hilt. Their cleansing light bathes the blade until it too shivers with blinding holy light. 

It is Finarfin who finally breaks the stunned silence. “Will even that be enough to kill one of the Valar?”

“Probably not,” Feanor admits, “but you don’t have to win. You just have to buy us some time and wound him enough that he’ll allow you to retreat.”

“I wasn’t sure you knew that word,” Fingolfin says, but the words are automatic. His eyes are still locked on the sword, mind whirling with the magnitude of what he’s about to do.

Challenge Morgoth. Again.

Feanor offers him the sword.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he accepts.

“And where will I be in all of this?” Finarfin asks. Judging by his flat tone, he already suspects.

“One of us has to stay with the people,” Fingolfin begins apologetically.

“One of us has to stay alive at least until Ada can get here,” Feanor says more bluntly. “And you’re the one best suited for keeping everyone together if the rest of this falls apart.”

Finarfin closes his eyes. His hand is tightly clenched around the back of the chair he’s standing behind. 

“If you die again,” he says, “you won’t have to worry about what’ll cause your third death, because I’m going to kill you.” 

“This will work,” Fingolfin says firmly.

“The Silmarils will provide him some protection,” Feanor agrees.

Finarfin’s eyes snap open so he can better glare at him. “I was talking to both of you.”

It probably says something about their family, Fingolfin thinks, that death threats count as meaningful expressions of affection.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last!

Challenging Morgoth to a fight to the death is really the sort of thing Fingolfin has always presumed an elf could only do once.

But here he is, again, willingly, as part of one of Feanor’s plans.

Maybe _Feanor_ isn’t the crazy one in the family. 

He looks across the lake to where the gates of Angband wait, takes a deep breath, and rides forward.

Despite all Finarfin’s threats, it really wouldn’t be such a bad way to die.

 

Nerdanel waits with Arafinwe and Tyelpe and hates every second of it. Feanaro is taking the last of her sons into danger, and she's no warrior to go with them or healer to prepare for their return. All she can do is sit and wait with her pale faced grandson, knowing that if this plan fails, she will have so very little left.

After what the Valar’s herald has proclaimed, she can’t even pray.

 

A normal dog would have been no use at all at tracking Feanor’s sons at this point. There is no plausible way to find a fresh scent trail to follow, and even if they could have, the odors wafting from Angband are overwhelming for even an elven nose.

But Huan is no ordinary dog. He knows what they were hunting for, and once the hunt begins, he needs nothing so pedestrian as scent.

Huan runs forward. Feanor, Celegorm, and Fingon are fast behind him. 

They can do this, Feanor tells himself. If Fingon could do it alone, than they can certainly do it together. 

Unless the Valar can hold both memory and grudges across timelines, of course. Unless this really is some obscure lesson he has not yet run the course of. Unless last time really had been pure luck -

But those are variables he can't control. All he can control now is this run toward the cliffs where his eldest son had once hung.

Except.

Except Huan is turning away from that cliff. Away from even the gates.

Huan is angling straight for where the challenge is to take place.

 

They have prepared for every possibility, Fingolfin thinks after a moment of blankness. Every possibility but this.

Morgoth has stridden out, great and terrible, from his black gates. A Maia of some sort is behind him - Sauron, maybe, or one of the lesser ones, it isn’t as if Fingolfin has spent much time socializing with them - which is fair enough as these things went. He has his own line of guards waiting behind him.

That, he had expected. That, he can deal with.

He had not expected the Maia to be dragging three familiar bodies, in which he can still detect a faint spark of life, on a chain behind him.

Morgoth smiles. The effect is a good deal less pleasant than it had been back in Valinor, but Fingolfin almost prefers it. This smile, at least, is honest.

“As you can see,” he says, “I have come to trade. Where is your side of the bargain?”

Fingolfin doesn’t believe for an instant that Morgoth will hand over his captives and let everyone walk away. There's a trick here, a trap, but Fingolfin unwraps the sword and lets the light of the Silmarils shine forth anyway. It will buy time, at least, and he desperately needs that.

Morgoth’s smile grows sharp. “But you have forged it into one treasure, not three! Surely you cannot expect me to agree to such an uneven trade.”

If he had really been haggling, he would have argued the point, but everyone here knows this was coming to a fight eventually. Better to decide when that point is now than to fall into an ambush.

And Morgoth will not have his captives killed quietly when all are distracted. He will make a production of it, or not do it at all. Odd as it seems, his nephews will be safer this way.

“I didn’t come to bargain with you, overgrown weasel that you are,” Fingolfin spits. “I came to give this to you, point-first. Or are you too great a coward to face the very treasure you covet?”

Morgoth’s smile grows stiff for only a moment before he charges.

Fingolfin urges his horse forward. 

_Seven blows,_ he reminds himself. _You know you can give him at least seven blows._

He tries not to think about how one of those blows had been struck even as he died.

 

They hide behind a convenient outcropping of rock. If Feanor remembers correctly, the same rock had played a small role in the ambush that had led to his death for the first time.

Seeing the scene before him, it takes all the restraint he has to not charge forth in all the rash anger that had been his undoing then.

Fingon’s hand is tight around his own sword. “We have to help them,” he hisses.

Celegorm’s eyes are fixed on where his brothers lay, but by the devastated fury in his face, he agrees.

Huan, though, is looking to the Maia and growling. 

There's no good way to do this quietly. 

“Huan and I will engage the one holding them,” Feanor says quietly. “Hopefully, he will drop the chain to fight. Whether he does or not, you two must try to free them and drag them to the line of soldiers Nolofinwe brought. Understood?”

They nod tensely.

If Morgoth’s forces see it from the gates and decide to interfere, they're doomed, but there's nothing that can be done about that.

With a great shout, Feanor charges.

 

_Three blows._

The sword Feanor had forged him is serving him better than his old one ever had. The light from the Silmarils burns Morgoth even when the blade fails to quite connect.

Morgoth’s massive form is slow, but not quite slow enough for comfort. All it will take is one blow to smash his ribs open and send him flying to the earth to be ground into dust - 

That was last time. That was then, this is now, and he ducks a swing of the mace Morgoth carries. His sword stabs upward into Morgoth’s wrist. Foul blood drips down.

_Four blows._

Fingolfin hears a shout. He doesn’t dare turn to look. 

 

The chain had been abandoned as the battle commenced. The initial length splits into three separate branches, and Tyelkormo kneels by the nearest bit and frantically begins sawing through it with a knife his father had given him. The enchanted steel cuts through it, but it isn’t nearly fast enough for his taste. 

Findekano’s blade isn’t half as good, so he kneels by the prisoners. “Maitimo? Can you hear me? We’re going to get you out of here.”

Tyelkormo spares them one quick glance.

Curufinwe looks by far the worst off, eyes open but unseeing, hands twisted almost beyond recognition. He suspects that the resemblance to their father that his brother had been so proud of had done him no favors.

Maitimo, though bloodied, is rising to a sitting position with Findekano’s help. He's saying something in a hoarse voice, but with the noise of two battles raging around them and the hoarseness of his brother’s voice, he can’t make out what it was.

Makalaure, though, pushes himself up on his elbows and locks eyes with Tyelkormo. “Stop trying to cut it,” he commands. His voice is cracked and weary, but the power behind it has yet to fade.

“We’re not leaving you,” Tyelkormo growls.

“Good,” Makalaure says with fervor. “But cut the chain later. If we do what we can, and the two of you help . . . “

Tyelkormo grasps the point immediately. They can pick the locks or saw through the chain at leisure back at camp; the important thing is to get his brothers back to safety first.

But the chain is long, thick, and undeniably heavy, and Curufinwe, at least, will not be able to walk on his own. He risks a glance at where Huan and his father are still locked in battle with the enemy. 

They have injured him, and injured him greatly. Huan’s jaws are currently locked around his throat, and Ada’s sword is dripping red. With so great an injury, surely . . . 

Huan’s strength is the greater, but he's also the more occupied.

“Ada!” he shouts. 

Even through the noise of battle, his father hears. Tyelkormo has risen and looped the greater part of the chain around himself and manages not to stagger under it. Findekano is carrying the greater part of Maitimo’s weight as he helps him to his feet.

Ada takes in the situation at once. He calls something to Huan, and then turns, eyes still aflame from the battle, to rush to their side.

 

_Five blows._

Fingolfin is not entirely unaware of the events around him. He knows the delaying tactic is working, but he's beginning to doubt it will last long enough. His horse is exhausted, and his own arm aches with the weight of the unfamiliar sword.

And Morgoth is laughing. That's never a good sign.

“Did you really think this would work, little elf?”

He turns, entirely unconcerned with baring his back, and swings his mace at the slow moving pack of Feanorians. Feanor is in the lead all but carrying one of his sons; he'll never be able to block or dodge in time.

_Not again. Not ever again -_

Fingolfin slices his sword at Morgoth’s exposed knee. Morgoth falters, blow slightly diverted, and Feanor lunges clear to one side.

Huan’s foe have fled. The great hound turns, sides heaving, to help face the new foe.

It still won’t be enough, Fingolfin realizes with a sinking heart. It was never going to be enough.

A flash of movement catches his attention, and his gaze is drawn upward to a flock of great birds descending from the sky.

 

“Their timing was much improved,” Fingolfin says from outside the healers’ tent. The healers have insisted on limiting visitors, so for now Finwe’s sons wait outside while Nerdanel, Celebrimbor, Fingon, and Celegorm fuss within. A horde of cousins will probably descend as soon as they're given the word. There's far less resentment to divide them this time. “For a moment I was afraid they’d just be carrying off the bodies again.”

“Still not funny,” Finarfin informs him, but the set of his shoulders is still far too relieved for his words to hold much bite.

Feanor finally tears his attention away from the entrance to the tent. “I doubt Morgoth will let this stand for long.”

Fingolfin’s mouth twists. “Probably not,” he agrees. “Dare we hope that our reinforcements will have arrived by then?”

“We can always hope,” Feanor says. “Although that was always more Finarfin’s area than mine.”

“We’ll hold out,” Finarfin says firmly. 

“Oh, probably,” Fingolfin agrees with a sigh. “In the short run, we’ve certainly got an excellent shot. In the long run, though, most of us are still all going to die horribly, aren’t we? We have the Silmarils, yes, but I doubt the Valar are going to accept that we’re truly penitent until things get a good deal worse than this.”

“I for one am not feeling terribly penitent yet,” Feanor says. “And there are worse things than dying in the fight against Morgoth.”

“There are,” Finarfin agrees. “But none of them are happening today. We’ve rescued your sons, the healers are . . . well, not optimistic, exactly, but at least in awe of your sons’ stubbornness and certain enough that they’re going to live, and no one died in the rescue. All we have to focus on are holding out and helping them heal for now.”

“And matchmaking,” Fingolfin says as an old worry strikes. “We’re going to have to be careful no one gets wiped out of existence over this.”

“That’s settled then,” Feanor says almost cheerfully. “I’ll worry about my sons, Finarfin can worry about the war, and you can worry about matchmaking.”

Fingolfin shoots him a look but declines to actually protest this. “Oh,” he remembers, drawing out his new sword, “I suppose you’ll be wanting this back?”

Feanor looks at it for a long moment, eyes glowing in the light of the gems and aching with longing, but he shakes his head. “Keep it,” he says. “My oath’s fulfilled, and I’ll not tempt another. You used it well enough.”

Fingolfin swallows hard and puts it away carefully, looking down to hide the way the world has blurred.

When he looks back up, Finarfin is grinning brilliantly. “This is better than last time at least,” he says. “Even if we do end up all dying horribly.”

“Last time?” Fingon says uncertainly from behind them.

All three of them spin. Fingon has poked his head out from within the tent.

As the silence dragged on, Fingon continues on. “Oh, and, um, the healers said someone else could come in now.” His eyes dart between them, very obviously still full of questions.

“Well, he’s your son,” Feanor says to Fingolfin, “and you're the one who blurted it out,” to Finarfin, “so you can sort it out between yourselves. I’m going to see to my sons.” He slips past Fingon before either of them could protest.

As much as he is now willing to admit that he loves his brother, at that moment, Fingolfin feels quite willing to contribute to the dying horribly part.

Judging by the expression on Finarfin’s face, he feels much the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really truly despise writing fight scenes.
> 
> I should probably stop writing stories that require them. I'm not going to, but I probably should.
> 
> Regardless, I finished this! Finally! Yay!
> 
> Edited Jan. 13, 2019 to correct the verb tenses in this chapter.


	6. Bonus Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fingolfin frets and plots.

There was a time when all Fingolfin had had to say to anyone on his family on the topic of marriage was that he hoped they’d someday find someone who made them as happy as his wife made him. 

He missed those days.

Feanor had been joking about the matchmaking being his problem, probably, but Fingolfin had sat down to think it all through, just to be safe.

Feanor’s branch of the family was fine. The only offspring any of them had managed was Celebrimbor, who was safely born and on his way to adulthood. While he supposed it was possible that one or more of them might give Feanor more grandchildren this time, Fingolfin wasn’t worried about gaining additional family members. He just didn’t want to lose any.

HIs own house was another matter. Idril was safely born, thank goodness, and it was a long time before she would meet Tuor, but he’d have to keep an eye out in the meantime to make sure no one wiped out anyone key in Tuor’s family line.

Which would be a lot easier if he knew more about Tuor’s family line than House of Hador. He’d just … have to hope for the best on that one, he supposed, and then throw his full support behind Idril if her father got twitchy about her marrying a human.

Maeglin was the real problem, though.

Given his daughter’s long search for Maeglin in the halls and refusal to leave without him, he was pretty sure that given full knowledge of the choice between Maeglin existing and Maeglin not existing, she’d take the former in an instant. Fingolfin was not opposed to this. Maeglin had done a terrible thing, yes, but there had been at least an element of coercion, and if they started getting rid of family members on that basis, they’d hardly have any family members left.

The problem was Eol.

Aredhel had refused to talk about her marriage for the most part, which was understandable, given how it had ended. She had refused to search Eol out, but she had refused to hear much ill spoken about him either. She just … hadn’t spoken of him.

There could be no Maeglin without Eol, but Fingolfin wasn’t about to let his daughter get tangled up in a marriage that would lead to unhappiness.

Alright. So Eol was necessary. His marriage to Aredhel was necessary. Eol being a terrible husband was unacceptable.

Well, they had a few centuries. Surely that was enough time to track down Eol and beat his character into a better state.

Daydreaming about the beating part of that process being rather literal cheered him up considerably. It was a plan, at least. He’d do his best with it. 

That just left Finarfin’s branch of the family.

Finduilas was already on the way, so that was one worry down. Galadrial hadn’t met Celeborn yet, but Celebrian wasn’t due for another Age; there was a large safety zone there.

No, the problem on Finarfin’s family tree was Elrond and Elros. 

He’d already thought through getting Earendil born; the problem was going to be getting Elwing. By all accounts, Beren and Luthien had barely survived their first go around, but he could at least hope their Doom was strong enough to withstand a minor thing like time travel.

The main concern there … assuming Beren’s ancestors survived long enough to produce him and that Beren survived long enough to meet Luthien … was whatever quest Thingol would assign Beren. Presumably it would be different this time, although if Thingol did still request a Silmaril, Fingolfin would be happy to give him one on the condition that he got to go along and chuck the thing at Thingol’s head.

… Which was a terrible idea that was nonetheless intensely satisfying to think about.

Anyway.

Presumably, though, Thingol would ask for something equally stupidly dangerous. If Fingolfin heard about it in time, he could invite himself along to help on the excuse that … Well, surely someone in Beren’s family would still do something useful for someone in Fingolfin’s family at some point. Failing that, Fingolfin could claim to be either a big supporter of young love or a big supporter of annoying Thingol, depending on the diplomatic situation at the time.

So that would get them Dior, hopefully, but frankly, all Fingolfin knew about Dior and Nimloth was who their parents were, who their kids were, that they’d owned a Silmaril, and that they’d killed some of his nephews and then been killed by the rest. He had no idea what had attracted them to each other. He’d just have to hope it would still be present.

If it was, that would give them Elwing.

Who would presumably (hopefully) not be a refugee this time. She’d be in Doriath. A Doriath that might still have the Mantle if they managed to keep Thingol from getting himself killed. 

How was she supposed to meet Earendil?

Later, he told himself firmly. He’d worry about those details later. That was about as far ahead as he could plan. They’d meet somehow, he’d make sure of it if he had to kidnap one of them, and that would get Elrond and Elros born. There would be plenty of time to get Elrond and Celebrian together, presuming he could keep Elrond alive long enough. Elros … he didn’t even know who Elros had married. Elros was on his own. If in a couple of ages Elrond started getting concerned about his daughter being interested in one of her many times removed cousins named Aragorn, he’d know it had worked out. If not … He had no idea.

So that was ever-

No. No, it wasn’t everyone. He’d forgotten Gil-Galad.

What he was supposed to do about Gil-Galad, he had no idea, since all of his children had either been genuinely ignorant or else supremely unwilling to share where the boy had actually come from.

Fingolfin wasn’t even entirely certain he was related by blood to the man. It was entirely possible someone had - found? adopted? kidnapped? created him from scrap metal and spare gears in a fit of boredom? - acquired him in something other than the usual way. If that was the case, and his original parents survived this time, he could still exist but under an entirely different name.

Maybe someone had told Finarfin something. Or Feanor. If any of Feanor’s sons had known, surely they would have been willing to tell their father given everything else they had done for the man.

Of course, that was assuming Feanor had asked, something Fingolfin rather doubted.

He’d manage. Somehow. He was going to drag this family into existence if he had to stab Morgoth in the face and write love letters under fake names to do it.

One of those potential scenarios was a lot more disturbing than the other, and it wasn’t the one that involved stabbing, but Fingolfin was willing to do it.


End file.
